Roses Are Red, but So Are John's Pants
by KatyLamphere
Summary: In which Sherlock stumbles serendipitously and stereotypically upon John's selection of rudely coloured underthings.


Sherlock was rather impressed at the array before him. He never imagined that doing laundry could be so..._ informative_. John, even after five years, could still hide things from him. The doctor was unceasingly un-boring. It was amazing.

Sherlock picked one pair of the garments up and examined it closer, admiring the stark difference between the piping and body of the piece. It really was extraordinary, and there were _so many pairs_.

How had Sherlock _not known_? He thought he'd sussed out everything there was to suss out about John, except from those constant and perfect moments when the doctor would surprise him. He wore boring jumpers and faded jeans and liked his tea with just enough milk to change the colour and even though he was left handed he fired his gun with his right because that way he could tend to something else with his left and his hair was more grey than blond now but that meant very little because it was still so very thick and god, _how had Sherlock missed the bloody red pants_?!

Sherlock was as disgusted with himself as he was delighted with John. God, this was brilliant. Sherlock had been so wrapped up in examining the perfect pair of red y-front underpants in his hands that he had not heard John's quietly padding footsteps until the man was right next to him, glaring angrily.

No, it wasn't anger, it was something a little more complicated. His pupils were blown and his breath a bit shortened but that could be anger... If he were not so seriously attuned to John of late Sherlock would have missed the subtle extra colour on his cheeks and slight shift of his eyes, skittering as they were over Sherlock's face.

God, he was so paradoxical.

Sherlock loved it.

John seemed to pick up a conversation from the middle, as they so often did. He didn't bother to ask 'what are you doing,' or 'why haven't you done actual washing,' because they were beyond that. No, John had gloriously skipped straight to:

'We all have proclivities, Sherlock...'

'Yes, though most peoples' don't tend to include large quantities of undergarments that better suit prepubescent boys, John,' Sherlock quipped, holding up the pair of said undergarments. 'Especially ones in such an alarming shade of red.' He couldn't hold back a snigger, as hard as he might have tried. It was only John's fault, really: he had forced Sherlock to do the washing, threatening to bin a rather important experiment.

'Sherlock...' John said, pinching the bridge of his nose and cocking a hip in impatience. 'When I asked-.'

'Forced, John.'

'-you to do the laundry, that did not mean you could go through all the clean laundry and arrange it like you'd washed it. I'm not an idiot, I know what I washed last weekend.' John was angry. Sherlock was unapologetic.

'Why y-fronts, John? And why red?'

'Fold them all and put them back, then do what's in the hampers. Trust me, it will not be a hardship for me to bin the mole liver you've got in the butter dish, it stinks.' He'd smirked triumphantly at Sherlock's half-affronted, half-horrified expression at his threat. 'This will not kill you, Sherlock,' John said. He walked out of the room, but not before grabbing the pair of pants Sherlock was inspecting.

'And to answer your question, Sherlock,' John called over his shoulder, 'it's because my arse looks amazing in them.'

Sherlock couldn't quite stop himself from visualizing John in just the red pants, and the way the doctor's hips swayed as he walked down the hall did nothing to squash the images either.

Sherlock felt a flush colour its way up his neck.

'Shit,' he muttered. He was in trouble.

* * *

Three days later Sherlock still couldn't rid himself of the image of John in the bloody red pants. He'd been bent over his microscope and suddenly the thought of how appealing the white piping might look against John's thighs made him twist the coarse tuning dial too far and he'd cracked the slide against the lens. Another image of exactly how the thin red fabric would pull against John's penis and testicles caught Sherlock as he was climbing the stairs to the flat, and he'd lost all the breath out of his chest, having to grip the railing to keep from toppling over.

It was infuriating.

And John was no help whatsoever. In fact, he seemed to know the effect he was having on Sherlock, and he'd been subtly exacerbating things. One morning, after Sherlock'd exited the shower (feeling only marginally better after the furious wank he'd had), John had dropped a teaspoon on the floor and had taken his sweet time bending at the waist to pick it up, an utterly distracting and insufficient flash of red showing between his jeans waistband and shirt hem, and then he'd pretended not to know the cause of Sherlock's sudden coughing fit (he'd aspirated his tea), smiling innocently in response to Sherlock's wheeze-interrupted glare.

'Bastard,' said Sherlock.

'Hm, rude,' was all John said, but he'd smirked evilly.

* * *

It had become unbearable. Lestrade had had an uncharacteristic streak of semi-intelligence and been able to solve every one of the cases that he'd been assigned, not coming to Sherlock once in three weeks.

Sherlock had not been bored, though.

John had proven to be extremely not-boring, and Sherlock was thrilled. Well, thrilled, embarrassed, aroused, infuriated, and even angered. But not bored.

Two days before, John had caught Sherlock on his way to the loo, backing him up against the wall. He was careful not to touch him, just herded him against the wallpaper with proximity and force of presence. Sherlock's breath still caught and heartbeat stuttered.

'You know,' John had said, darkly quiet. 'All you have to do is ask. Just ask and you can see them. I'd like it, too, Sherlock.' John'd purred his name, barely a breath away, and Sherlock was grateful for the wall behind him. Before he could react, though, John had pulled away and walked down the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

God, but he was in trouble.

Sex was messy. Sex was unnecessary. Sex would upset the equilibrium he and John had sought so diligently after that ordeal with his fake death and return. He knew John would want more than Sherlock could give. The mess with Mary had shown Sherlock that John was attracted to Sherlock, would do anything for him. That had been the problem, actually. Sherlock always came first in John's life and Mary couldn't accept that, especially when John didn't even try to deny it.

So why was this so hard? John was already his in every other sense, why couldn't they have this, too?

_Because you'll muck it up and he'll leave_, supplied his overwrought and slightly sexually frustrated lizard brain.

_Exactly_, agreed the logical part of his brain.

'Fuck,' was what he said out loud, pressing the flat of his palm against his crotch where his half-hard cock was trapped behind designer trousers. He'd retreated to his bedroom, resigning himself to a frantic afternoon wank, coming with John's name on his lips.

* * *

The tension was unbearable, and John couldn't wait till it snapped. He could tell that the break was going to be _fantastic._ He just had to push a little bit further, test Sherlock's patience a little bit harder.

He was aware of the effect he was having on the other man. He was not immune to the smouldering looks Sherlock had been giving him, and the overlong showers Sherlock had been taking had only given John time to feverishly pull himself off, as well. God, all because of the blasted red pants. It had been a stretch, getting Sherlock to do the washing, but as soon as he'd threatened the (absolutely revolting) human tongue-halves basted in what smelled like brown sauce and curry, Sherlock had jumped up and grabbed the detergent. John's victory was short-lived however, when he not only did not hear the washer running, he could no longer hear Sherlock's childishly affronted huffing and puffing.

John's back had gone up: a silent Sherlock was a getting-into-something-he-really-shouldn't Sherlock. The man was like a goddamn toddler in some ways.

Upon investigating John had found Sherlock with a hamper full of (clean) clothes, all messed up on the bed in front of him, the majority of which were the contents of the back of John's pants drawer. John's first reaction had been embarrassment, but when he'd taken in Sherlock's dilated pupils and shortened breaths, his mouth had gone completely dry. It was nearly impossible to fight the urge to throw Sherlock down on his own bed and have him on top of the pile of red pants, but he'd thought of the mole liver (even incorporated it into another threat), effectively stamping down his arousal and a plan had begun formulating in his head.

Sherlock might have thought he was an idiot but he still had a few tricks up his sleeves.

* * *

Four days, two close encounters, and too many inadequate wanks later, John and Sherlock were at an impasse. Sherlock refused to cave and John refused to give up.

They couldn't even sit at the breakfast table without the sexual tension disflavoring the bacon decided to go for over-the-top, determined that today would be the day the tension would break.

'God, Sherlock,' he said breathlessly, closing his eyes. 'I wish you'd just ask already. I can't stop thinking about how amazing red would look on you, too.' John struggled to keep a grin off his face when he heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat. John leaned back in his chair, his knees pushing forward under the table till they were brushing Sherlock's.

'No,' Sherlock said sharply. It was enough for John to sit up straight and open his eyes, dropping the act.

'Why not?' he said, eyes sharp.

'Because,' Sherlock said, jutting his chin out in defiance. The movement made his curls shake enticingly on his forehead and John's fingers itched with the urge to _touch._

'Not an answer.'

'Enough of an answer,' Sherlock sniped, crossing his arms.

'Nope. Give me a real answer.'

'Because you're divorced.'

'That's a better reason /to/ than reason _not to._'

'You're divorced and emotionally unstable and I'm married to my work and you're looking for  
something I cannot freely give and-' Sherlock stopped short because John was laughing.

'Really, Sherlock? Are you shitting me?' John crossed his own arms, eyes dancing with self-deprecating mirth.

'What?' Sherlock asked sharply, brow furrowing in a precursor to anger.

'Sherlock, you are so full of shit sometimes I wonder at how you can function.'

'According to Mycroft, I don't,' Sherlock said quietly, looking away.

'Sherlock,' John said just as quietly. When the other man paid him no attention, John leaned forward and put an arm across the table, fingertips skimming one of Sherlock's forearms. That Sherlock didn't pull away was clue enough for John.

'Sherlock, look at me.'

He did. And John let all of the last five years play across his face. It was obvious Sherlock could see it because his brow furrowed deeper and his frown increased.

'John, I can't give you what you want.'

'And what's that, then?'

'Stability, affection, reciprocation. Guarantees. Children. Love.'

'Bullshit.'

Sherlock looked surprised at John's vehement capitulation.

'Complete and utter bullshit. I have _never_ wanted stability. You knew that the moment you met me, remember? "I said dangerous, and here you are" ring any bells? And you give me affection all the time. Sure, it's not normal-people affection, it's Sherlock-affection, but most of the time I like that better anyway. And we're not even going to discuss reciprocation, because I'm pretty sure the last four days of smouldering looks and considerably lengthened showers prove you reciprocate most if not all of what I feel for you. Guarantees can go right out the window because you gave me your guarantee a year ago when you pitched yourself off a goddamn roof for me.' John had to clear his throat at that. 'Children have never been something I have held in anything other than the abstractest regard Sherlock, and love... Love is strange. It tends to creep up on you. It ambushes you when you least expect it. And I know that it's certainly ambushed me. God, I think I was a goner in Bart's lab five years ago when you fucking told me my life's story from that bloody mobile and goddamn tan line. I've lived with that, through the horrid things in the fridge and the horrid things you've said and the horrid, _horrid_ way you've treated anyone and everyone around you, because I've seen the real you, remember? I know that smile you use when you're faking it and then one you use when I've done something to surprise you. I know the look you give me when I am thinking the same thing as you and you know it, and I know it's different than the one you give Lestrade when he's thinking the same. I know what it's like to be flayed by your goddamn rude remarks, torn open by your ridiculous ego, and then you give me that beaming smile because I've done something to please you, and that, Sherlock, for me... That's love. Well, it's either that or Stockholm Syndrome, but either way, I'm yours,' John gave a small, half-laugh at his weak joke, and Sherlock only quirked his lips a bit.

'I'll not presume you that you love me, I know you think something like that is beneath you, but really, you've always been more important than anyone else and I will gladly take whatever you have to give.'

With that John got up, taking their breakfast plates with him to the kitchen where he deposited them in the sink and took himself upstairs to his room. He knew Sherlock would need time. Soon the sounds of violin followed John upstairs and he allowed himself a small smile; it was his favorite composition.

He'd taken a risk, laying his cards down for Sherlock to peruse. And he really hadn't meant for it to get as heavy as it had. But, as always, Sherlock was five steps ahead of him, already thinking about the future. John shouldn't have been surprised. But, now it was all in the open, everything he felt for Sherlock, and perhaps it would be enough to spur Sherlock into some sort of action. Both John and his cock hoped it was a very particular sort of action.

* * *

Sherlock tried to excuse John's speech as pent up frustration and tension, but as he stood in the sitting room and played his violin he knew John was right: he was full of shit.

He'd be lying if he said that what John had said didn't excite him, didn't entice him, didn't nearly convince him to climb the nine steps and cross the landing to John's bedroom and beg to be fucked hard and fast and never let outside the room again.

Sherlock would really be lying if he said his cock hadn't been half-hard through John's speech.

God, he wanted this. He wanted John and everything that entailed.

But he was terrified he'd do something worse than he'd done before and force John out.

As he trilled through one of his most recent compositions (he did _not_ acknowledge it was one he'd written for John), Sherlock paced and thought and then paced some more.

As he reached the middle crescendo of the piece, bow gaining momentum as it pulled solemnly across the strings, Sherlock closed his eyes in shame.

Of course he could do this with John.

He really couldn't do anything worse than he'd already done and everything John had said had been truth. Sherlock and John were already a couple, they lived together, worked together, ate together, laughed together. John had even buried him.

Sex was just obvious at this point, so glaringly obvious that Sherlock tossed down the violin and tugged at his hair, muttering insults to himself.

'Stupid, _stupid_,' he said and gave one last tug on his hair before he vaulted himself toward the stairwell, dressing gown flapping in ignored drama behind him.

He had an army doctor to fuck.

* * *

When Sherlock flew through the doorway John could only heave a sigh of relief, muttering something about it being _about bloody time_ before he had his arms full of an extremely excited and very lanky, wriggly consulting detective. Before Sherlock got too far in the undressing of either of them, John stilled his hands and pushed him back just enough that his face came into focus.

'We won't do anything you don't want, Sherlock,' John said, cupping Sherlock face.

'There isn't anything I don't want from you, John,' Sherlock said darkly, and his sweet baritone went straight to John's cock, forcing all inhibitions straight out of his head.

John moaned wantonly and Sherlock resumed his flurry to get them both out of their clothes. He was naked in nearly no time and John had been stripped down to those gorgeous and filthy red pants. Sherlock stared for a second or two, drinking in his fill of the white piping and _exactly_ how delicious it looked against John's slightly hairy thighs. Sherlock licked his lips hungrily and John lost his breath when he caught a glimpse of how dark Sherlock's eyes had gotten.

'Christ, Sherlock, just touch me,' he said breathlessly, reaching out to tug Sherlock to him but Sherlock evaded his hands, instead placing his own high up on John's thighs and sticking his nose right into the crease where his right thigh met his groin.

John gasped, hips bucking at the sudden contact. His cock was already more than half hard, pressing up against the waist of the pants. Sherlock just inhaled, though, breathing in John's fabric-covered cock.

'John, it's even more glorious than I imagined. I want photographs, I want x rays, I want to document this in every way possible. If I thought I could do without your voice I'd have you stuffed, preserved erect and wanting and in these damn red pants for eternity, Christ, how have we not been doing this forever?' Sherlock was babbling, nearly incoherent because he was so breathless and he spoke so quickly.

'Fuck, Sherlock,' moaned John as he ran eager hands through Sherlock's curls.

The curse seemed to spur something in Sherlock because he pulled away from John's crotch and looked up at John through his lashes.

'Yes, John, I certainly hope you do,' and John nearly came then.

'Oh God, yes,' he said, hauling Sherlock up and kissing him hard. Most of John's first kisses had been gentle and tentative, but theirs was harsh and intended to ravish and they fought over dominance. There was more teeth than lips and it was too wet but John only got harder and it only made him want Sherlock even more and-

'Fuck, Sherlock,' John husked. 'If we don't stop that and slow down it'll be over before I'm even naked.'

Sherlock looked affronted, not an easy task with kiss-bruised lips and a bit of beard burn around his mouth from John's stubble.

'John, I fully intend for you to fuck me while wearing the pants,' Sherlock said, not without a fair bit of rasp of his own.

John had to close his eyes and think again of the mole liver.

'Yes, fucking Christ yes, alright,' he said and turned Sherlock onto his back. He turned away and grabbed the half-empty tube of lubricant from the top drawer of his nightstand, hesitating only a second before also grabbing a condom.

When he'd turned around, Sherlock was stroking himself in a completely absent way, like he didn't realize he'd been doing it. The man was a sight, all pale elbows and knees and angles. The fact that his cock was long, slender, and perfectly straight did not come as a surprise.

'You are going to be the death of me, you're goddamn Adonis, shit,' John said, struck dumb when Sherlock's strokes got a little rougher, a little firmer at his words.

'Whoa,' he said, leaning in to kiss Sherlock again. 'Wait for me.'

Sherlock's strokes slowed again, and John scrambled to get in between his long legs, When put face-to- face with Sherlock's cock, it proved to be beautiful up-close, too. The skin on his shaft was only three or four shades rosier than the rest of his skin, and the head was only just turning purplish with blood where the foreskin was retracting. The veins pulsed enticingly just under the skin and John couldn't help but bat Sherlock's hand away and lick a stripe up the largest. Sherlock's grunt turned into a breathy groan when John gripped the base with one hand and reached the head with his tongue, swirling around the glans.

'Fuck,' Sherlock said when John slicked his tongue across his slit, relishing the bitterness of precome. John took the head into his mouth, sucking gently and tonguing across the fraenulum. John hadn't given head since the army but it wasn't something you forgot, especially when your partner was so expressive, like Sherlock.

When John took nearly all of Sherlock's length into his mouth, letting him hit the back of his throat, he'd had to throw an arm across Sherlock's hips because he'd arched so far off the bed he'd nearly choked him.

John drew Sherlock nearer and nearer to orgasm, bobbing his head and stroking with his hand, but wouldn't let him find release, and Sherlock had been reduced to babbling nonsense praise and tugging restlessly at John's hair.

John finally pulled all the way off Sherlock's cock, resting his forehead on the detective's hip to catch his breath. Giving head had always turned him on something fierce and the sounds, god... The sounds Sherlock was making were nearly enough to drive him mad. Such a deep and smooth voice breaking over moans and half-forming words dirty enough to make even stalwart Mrs Hudson blush was making John's head fuzzy with arousal and the need to be _in Sherlock right now_.

He had to find out exactly what experience Sherlock had, if any, before he continued. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock by being presumptuous and overeager.

'Have you ever been fucked before, Sherlock?'

'Yes, please John, get on with it,' Sherlock choked out, slender fingers tugging at John's shorn hair.

'Yeah, gimme a sec, fuck,' John said as he fumbled with the lube. He coated his index and middle fingers liberally before slicking them back behind Sherlock's testicles. He pressed firmly but teasingly on his perineum before inching further back and circling Sherlock's anus.

The blowjob had done wonders in relaxing Sherlock but John mouthed along his cock some more as he breached him with one finger, twisting his wrist and stretching the muscle a bit before pulling out again. Sherlock's panting had turned into non-stop moans and 'please's when John had brushed once by his prostate, nearly but not quite touching it. John didn't want this to be over before he got inside him.

John took Sherlock down to the root when he pressed two fingers into Sherlock's hole, his other arm having to come up and hold Sherlock's hips again as he rose up off the bed with a strangled shout. John was diligent but nearly clinical in his preparation of Sherlock, pumping three fingers easily into his anus before deeming him ready. He pulled back from Sherlock, watching his anus stay open and ready for him even as his fingers left. God, it was going to be amazing.

'Sherlock, love, put a pillow under your hips,' John said, now kneeling in between Sherlock's bent legs. When Sherlock didn't respond to John's command, he finally looked up from Sherlock's arse to his face. Sherlock's curls were sweat damp and sticking to his forehead. There were twin smears of colour high on the man's ridiculous cheekbones and his breath was coming out quick and strained from between swollen and reddened lips. What John could see of his eyes from under heavy lids were glassy and dark. He looked _wrecked_.

'John, you might have to help me,' Sherlock said quietly, and if his erection did not still jut proudly out John might have thought Sherlock was suffering from post-orgasmic bliss already.

'Yeah, alright, lift your hips.'

After Sherlock was settled on a pillow and John had looked his fill of a debauched and ruined Sherlock, John reached down to the waistband of his pants and began to tug them down, only to be stopped by Sherlock.

'I want to,' the man said simply, sitting up and reaching out with both hands to the white hem of the red pants. There was now a large wet spot near the waistband where John's cock had been leaking copious amounts of pre-ejaculate. Sherlock ran a thumb over the spot, making sparks light behind John's eyes. Sherlock had somehow come out of his haze enough to be cataloguing every one of John's reactions and John wouldn't have thought he could get any harder. Sherlock's cutting gaze flitted from where the flat of his hand had begun firmly rubbing John through red fabric and John's face where John was sure he could see every single thought that entered his head played out in his wrinkles and laugh lines.

'God, Sherlock,' John breathed, eyes shut firmly against Sherlock's smoulder (though he could still feel it crawling across his skin). Sherlock finally pulled the waistband out from John's pelvis, down and away from his erection, and tucked it behind John's testicles. John gasped at the light touches of Sherlock's violinist's fingers against his shaft.

How many times had he brought himself off imagining those very fingers wrapped around him? How many fantasies had John woven around those digits specifically?

Whatever he'd imagined wasn't nearly the truth of how clever Sherlock's fingers really were. They tugged John's foreskin away from his glans and danced simultaneously firmly and teasingly against his balls, rolling them in his palm and, god, he must have been weighing them for Christ's sake, and didn't _that_ just make John melt.

John was lost in pleasure so was therefore surprised when Sherlock's hands had left his cock and turned instead to his upper arms where they were tugging and pulling him down. John opened his eyes to find the condom on his cock and lube slicked up his length and Sherlock's impatient eyes begging him along with his impatient voice 'please, John, please, I need it, please.'

And when had John ever refused Sherlock anything?

He probed with his left hand once to make sure Sherlock was still open, before locking his elbows near Sherlock's shoulders and pushing _in_ and fuck it was hot and tight and goddamn fucking _perfect_.

John'd retained enough of his faculties to go slow, even when Sherlock's heels dug into the small of his back and he hissed 'come _on_ John, I won't break,' and when he'd finally sunk all the way into Sherlock he rested his forehead against the detective's and breathed in the moment.

Sherlock calmed when John did this, captured as he was by John's gaze.

'Sherlock, god, you're brilliant,' John breathed against his mouth.

Sherlock's pupils blew impossibly wider and his stomach quivered against John's.

'John, _move_,' he said and threw back his head when John pulled nearly all the way out and shoved back in, twisting his hips just so. When John found Sherlock's prostate on the way in, Sherlock's nails dragged down John's shoulder blades and he groaned so obscenely John made it a point to drag another and another and another of the same out of him till he was keeping up a relentless rhythm and the neighbors were sure to complain.

'God, Sherlock, nearly there, are you close?' and Sherlock could only nod quickly, taking his hand from John's neck where it'd been clinging to reach down and fist himself.

'Fuck, John, I'm coming,' and he was, clenching even tighter around John's cock and spilling thick ropes of semen on his chest and belly. John lasted another two thrusts before the quivering of Sherlock's hole and the nearly pained sighs Sherlock was giving drove him over the edge. He squeezed his eyes tight as his hips stuttered and he came so hard he saw spots.

When the aftershocks had stopped and his breathing rate had returned to something not quite so alarming, John reached down and gripped the base of the condom, the both of them groaning as he pulled out.

Tying off and tossing the condom over the side of the bed, John checked Sherlock over automatically, making sure he hadn't injured him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had gone completely pliant, not even reacting when John prodded him, washing him up with a flannel he'd got from the nightstand. John only tucked himself back into his ridiculous red pants and pulled the duvet over them both, arranging Sherlock until only a few elbows and knees were poking John awkwardly.

Sherlock's eyes opened when John settled next to him, one hand on Sherlock's left bicep.

'Extraordinary, John. Absolutely extraordinary,' and right then, John believed him.

He let a smile creep across his face and he burrowed into the bed, tugging Sherlock along with him. He slept all night without incident, a first since the divorce.

* * *

Sherlock watched John sleep, counting his wrinkles and recounting them. He brushed John's hair from his forehead and murmured nothings when his brow furrowed or he stirred restlessly as he dreamt. Sherlock didn't quite know what to do with himself now that he and John had crossed that line.

The sex had been revelatory. Sherlock had had sex before; it was rare a man got to be 36 without at least a cursory exploration of sex, even rarer when that man had spent 6 years a homeless junkie that happened to still have all his hair and teeth and no spots (dealers were exceptionally more generous to the pretty ones giving them blowjobs). Mycroft and Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty be damned, Sherlock's empirical data on both hetero- and homosexual relations was extensive and lacking little.

But sex was messy and it complicated things. People could rarely separate sex from sentiment, especially when such ridiculous hormones as oxytocin flooded the system and created attachments where Sherlock wanted none.

Upon fulfilling his thirst for knowledge on sex after uni and getting sober after discovery of Lestrade, Sherlock swore off sex, It was so much easier without emotions muddying things up.

But here, now, the last vestiges of post-orgasmic glory leaving his system, Sherlock did not feeling the overwhelming urge to flee and scrub himself raw, like he had so often before.

Sherlock found himself revelling in the sticky residue of his own sweat mingled with John's; the scratchy feeling of it drying did not make him ill. In that late-afternoon half light Sherlock found himself resonating with something close to contentment.

He let a small smile cross his features as John snuffled quietly and sank impossibly deeper into the mattress. He was happy, here with John, even after sex and the supposed complications thereof. They were going to be fine. They were going to be happy. They were going to solve murders and catch killers and kidnappers and burglars and Sherlock and John would remain Sherlock and John because sex had really only ever been the next logical step.

Sherlock let that thought drag him down to sleep, too.

* * *

'John.'

John jerked awake at the sound of his name, blinking sleep out of his eyes and blearily looking around.

'John,' Sherlock said from the door, tray of food in his hands. 'Tea?'

'Have I died?' asked John as he sat up. Sherlock scoffed derisively and set the tray (which also had biscuits!) on his lap.

'Don't be ridiculous, I've made tea before.'

'I remember one time in five years you've made me tea, and it wasn't tea, it was coffee, at the Cross Keys in Grimpen, and you made it with sugar you thought was drugged.' John sipped the tea and found it was perfect. 'Have you drugged this, then?'

'Piss off,' was all Sherlock said as he clambered onto the other side of the bed, jostling the tray. John was grateful he'd picked his cup up.

'None for you?'

'Not thirsty.'

'You really should drink, you'll be dehydrated after...' the blush that spread across John's cheeks at the memory was really superb.

'The sex, yes. I drank two glasses of water downstairs while the kettle boiled, _doctor_, I assure you I'm fine.' there was no heat in Sherlock's voice, only a softness that John rather thought he could get used to.

'Speaking of doctor, how are you feeling?'

'Well fucked and perfectly happy,' said Sherlock, if only to get another of those excellent blushes. He was not disappointed.

'No pain?'

'No, John, no pain, now eat your biscuits. Lestrade texted, there's been a murder,' and John would never get used to the glee that lit up Sherlock's nearly colourless eyes when he said 'murder.'

'Knew breakfast in bed was too good to be true, there's always an ulterior motive with you,' John said jovially, downing his tea and scarfing three biscuits as Sherlock laughed and jumped up from the bed and hightailed it down the stairs.

'Come on, John!' he shouted behind him. John dressed as quickly as he could, giving himself a whore's bath in the sink before grabbing his coat and following Sherlock down the stairs, running directly into the detective who'd stopped just before the door to the street.

'Something wro-' John was cut short when Sherlock whirled around and planted a kiss on his lips. John gasped in surprise, still unused to kisses from Sherlock and completely blindsided by such open affection from the other man. It was more than he had hoped for.

'When I solve this, and I will, you're going to suck me off while fingering me, and then make me come again while you fuck me. Agreed?' It was hard to tell if it was the dim corridor lighting or the arousal that was mirrored in John, but Sherlock's pupils were blown wide.

'Erm, yeah, 'course. Sounds good,' and if John's voice was a bit gruffer than normal and his trousers a bit tighter than normal, neither man commented on it.

Sherlock kissed John again, quick and chaste, before grabbing his hand and opening the door the Baker Street.

There was a murder waiting for them, but John's trousers slung a bit low on his hips and there was an irresistible flash of red every time he raised an arm, so Sherlock made John hail a cab (even though it took him four tries where Sherlock could have gotten it in one).

The body wasn't likely to wander off, now was it?


End file.
